


Foreign

by OnABadBet



Series: Switched [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bodyswap, M/M, Masturbation, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-18
Updated: 2013-03-18
Packaged: 2017-12-05 16:39:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/725499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnABadBet/pseuds/OnABadBet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean wakes up one morning feeling like his bones got worked over and pulled apart while he slept.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Foreign

There's not really an explanation for any of it.

Dean wakes up one morning feeling like his bones got worked over and pulled apart while he slept, and he's face-up (weird for him) in a bed he didn't go to sleep in the night before (not necessarily a first time thing, so he's not actually all that concerned). It's when he goes to run a hand through his hair -- nervous tic, or just plain habit at this point -- that he thinks there might be something to worry about.

He flinches at the foreign tug of long, tangled hair catching around his fingers and takes a moment to assess; he's got an idea, but he's hesitant to confirm it. He runs a hand up his shirt -- sharper, unfamiliar muscle -- to his collarbone, rubs a thumb beneath it.

Sure enough, the pad catches briefly -- almost imperceptibly, if Dean wasn't specifically looking for it -- on the scar Sam's had since he was seventeen, hitting _another_ growth spurt and tripping over his own spindly-ass limbs. It's not even a particularly exciting one; Sam's got his fair share of scars from a lifetime of hunting, but this one, one of his most visible, he got running into the corner of a house falling apart at the seams.

Suspicions confirmed, Dean heaves a sigh and sinks deeper into the pillow, weird scratch of hair at the back of his neck like he's not used to.

He lies there for awhile, wondering how the fuck he ended up in his little brother's body, before his hips give an involuntary twitch and his breath hitches as the comforter slides over his -- naked, what the hell, Sam -- cock. Dean glances down, and yeah -- morning wood, which he unsurprisingly overlooked in his cataloging of the situation at hand. He lifts the blanket and peers down the (long, never-fucking-ending) line of Sam's torso, brow quirking in reluctant admiration.

“Goddamn, little brother. Packing some serious heat.”

He is, too. It's -- well, it's pretty, for lack of a better word. And definitely proportional. Thick, wide, with the near-absurd length to match. Smooth, flushed skin, gentle upward curve to the broad, blood-dark tip. Dean stares at it, thinks, _that’s Sam_ , watches as it gives a shuddering little jerk, and preemptively bites off the noise he can feel building in the back of his throat.

Dean's very, very quickly caught up with Sam's body, a little insane with the idea of touching Sam like this ( _not allowed, not allowed, hands to yourself, not yours_ ) and the fact that Sam won't be any the wiser. He doesn't stop to wonder why Sam (presumably in Dean's body) wasn't in the motel room when he woke up, just slides a hand down his stomach almost without thinking, fingertips bumping over sleep-soft muscle and brushing through the dark hair around the base. Skips over the shaft entirely and cups his hand around the head, gentle slip-shift of skin as he works his palm -- not his palm, Sam’s, _fuck_ \-- over the slit.

The feel of it has Dean curling in on himself, shoulders coming off the mattress, stomach jumping erratically as he groans. “Fucking sensitive, too, _shit_ ,” he gasps, and immediately groans again at the sound of the words in Sam’s voice, deeper and rougher than Dean’s used to, straight from the grip of sleep into choking arousal.

He can't help it, after that, after he knows how easily Sam's dick gets worked up, fucking leaking for it, sluggish pulses of precome dribbling from the slit and onto his fingers. Dean pulls every trick he knows works on himself -- fitting the grip of his fingers just under the crown, slow stroke down, harder, tighter, faster on the upstroke; fingers working slow and sure over the divot just above the circumcision scar until it's too much, too sensitive; thumb dipping into the slit and pulling the pleasure straight out with every new slick-slide of liquid from the tip.

It works, and then some. Dean wasn't counting on the fact that it -- it wasn't just the one thing; Sam's apparently way more sensitive than Dean is in general, reactions magnified and thrown back at him tenfold until Dean's keening with every stroke, fingers and dick and inner thighs soaked all to hell -- and that makes it even more intense, harder for Dean to take, because he never gets wet like this, leaking all over the place because every touch feels so goddamn good.

And the noises, fuck. It's like every guilty, filthy-wet dream Dean had as a teenager, trying not to soak up the grunts and moans of effort Sam made when they were sparring, baby brother growing bigger and leaner and more beautiful by the day. Dean spent years trying not to take those little noises and warp them in his head, and now he's jerking off in Sam's body, Sam's gorgeous, hard dick slipping through his fingers, Sam's mouth working open to let out noises that Dean couldn't have imagined even if he'd let himself try. The sounds are going straight to his gut, endless feedback-loop of pleasure as he jacks himself, moans at the feel, jacks himself harder at the noise.

He can feel his abs clenching restlessly, every jerk of his hips getting wilder and more arrhythmic, and he's close, so fucking close, god, Sam, Sammy, _Sam_ \--

The sound of the door closing hits him at the same moment he hears his own breathless voice say, "Dean?" and then he's coming, spine arching sharply off the mattress, toes curling around the edge of the bed so hard he feels his calf muscles cramping through the overwhelming pleasure of it.

The shock has him coming down fast and hard, but it keeps him hazy-eyed, slow. It's also probably what keeps him from physically lobbing himself out the window above Sam's bed, hot-wiring the Impala, and never, ever showing his face again.

"Sam," he says, and Sam's voice is wrecked, throaty and used from the amount of noise Dean's been -- _jesus_ , all the noise Dean's been making so he can listen to himself _using his little brother's body_.

Something must show on his face, because Sam's next to him before he can blink, wide (barely recognizable as green, the pupils are so blown) eyes staring down at Dean from his own face, mouth slack, swollen and wet-looking, like Sam's been gnawing at his lips.

Sam swallows, eyes skipping away from Dean's and down the line of his own body sprawled out on the bed, hidden by the blanket but no less obvious for it. "Feel good?" he asks, and Dean does a bit of a double-take, both at the words and the raw tone of his voice.

He frowns. "How did you --"

"You're not as sensitive." Sam looks back up at his face, offers Dean an amused, understanding little quirk of the mouth. It's Dean's face, but the expression -- that's all Sam. "Took me forever to get off in the shower earlier."

Dean huffs a surprised laugh and feels some of the tension bleed out of him. "Sorry for borrowing your body, I guess. Woke up confused and hard enough to pound nails."

Sam shrugs. "Figured you probably would. Always do."

A vague afterthought of arousal slides through him at the idea, the thought that Sam wakes up every morning feeling like _that_ with Dean in a bed not ten feet away, and he has to swallow, brace himself against it. Sam's gaze sharpens a little anyway and he slides to his knees next to the bed. His fingers pluck distractedly at the cotton beside Dean's hip, and when he speaks, the words come out slow, thoughtful.

"You know what I had to do to get off?"

Dean jerks his eyes away from the movement of Sam's -- his -- fingers, eyes scanning Sam's face confusedly. "I -- what? Dude, seriously, what?"

"You just got off in my body, using my dick." Sam's fucking mercurial, shifting heat to humor in the span of two seconds. Dean can't always keep up. "I think it's only fair to tell you how I did it in yours."

"I -- Sam, I don't. I don't really need to know. It's fine."

"I thought about you."

Dean has to look away from his brother, then, doesn't think he can handle watching his own mouth shaping the things Sam's about to say.

"Thought about you, Dean. It's -- it's not the first time." Dean's endlessly grateful for the misstep, the little, stuttering intake of breath between words that says Sam's fumbling here, too. "Think about you every time, pretty much. But I -- your body. You..."

He knows what Sam's going to say. He also knows he doesn't want to hear it.

He forces his mouth into an uncomfortable, stilted smile and reaches out to clap a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Glad we had this talk, Sammy. I take it you've --"

"Fingers."

Dean sucks in a breath and cuts his eyes away again. "Damn it, Sam. You can't fucking leave it alone?"

The laugh that comes out of Sam is more than a little hysterical. "I've been thinking about fucking my big brother since I was fifteen years old, and today I find out it's half-impossible to make him come without something up his ass. Forgive me if I'm a little --" He hears Sam inhale sharply, can picture his own face going through the motions, lips pursed and nostrils flaring. "Jesus. I'm a little preoccupied."

"Well, you leak like a fucking faucet," Dean mumbles. His voice is petulant, his face is on fire, and he's pretty well past caring about how childish his comebacks are, thanks very much. "I don't think I've fucked girls who get as wet as you do, Sammy." No use pointing out how hard that turned Dean's crank about ten minutes ago.

"No one I've ever fucked seemed too upset about it," Sam says, and the leer is practically audible. Dean squirms and pushes down the stray thoughts about how easy that must make it, the wet length of Sam slipping inside --

Sam's fingers catch on his chin, tilt Dean's head back toward him, and Sam gives him a knowing look, disconcerting coming from his own face. He shifts his fingers again so he can push the pad of his thumb into Dean's lower lip and drag his mouth open, then leans forward, head tilting to align their mouths, stopping with an inch to spare.

"You want it," he breathes, and his voice shakes enough to tell Dean that Sam can't know that, isn't sure at all, but he -- he's sure enough to risk a guess and lay it out, and that's scary enough. "Bet you'd love it, the way you like being stretched open, just a little too full. Like the burn, right, Dean?" He pauses for a moment, tongue flicking wet over his own lips and tasting Dean's by demand of proximity. "Barely need any lube, the way I get wet, you know -- work you open with my spit, slide into you bare. Fuck you open so good, so deep, you'd be tasting me for a week."

Dean shakes in his brother's hold, feels his mouth fall open a little wider in his grip. "Yeah, Sammy," he whispers. He barely catches the corners of Sam's smile before Sam presses their mouths together, open and wet and clinging as he pulls back again.

"Better find a way to get us switched, then." Sam offers him a smile as he retreats, startling sweetness and warmth in the aftermath of the heat he just fed straight into Dean's open lips.


End file.
